Iron Reaper
by Lukas-the-Trickster
Summary: Iron Reaper is the story of the Iron Reapers, a dark and secretive chapter of Space Marines, sworn to hunt those deemed unworthy of In the first story of a possible series, the Iron Reapers face off against an old enemy in an epic tale of tragedy and Rated M for graphic
1. Prologue

_**Author's notes: So this is the prologue of Iron Reaper, a story about an original chapter of Space Marines sworn to do The Emperors work in anyway they deem necessary. Iron Reaper is a story with considerable scale and depending on which way you look at it, could be considered quite tragic. It's rated M for some graphic depictions of violence. **_

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Rain hammered down from the inky black darkness above, thick fat rain drops, some as big human fists pelted the landscape in a continuous rumble reminiscent of a million beating drums. Every now and then sheets of blue lightning would burst across the sky, illuminating for a brief moment only the dark leafed trees swaying in the wind below. Just as the flash died away the thunder would follow, a deafening drawn out rumble, like the bellowed laughter of some drunken god. Well worn paths in the undergrowth had become temporary rivers of thick mud in the downpour, the ground was uneven and treacherous, steep slopes had become waterfalls. Most of the flat areas of land had become ankle deep with water, the ground beneath like quicksand. Anyone stupid enough to enter the jungle tonight would likely never return.

Surrounded by the thick jungle trees was a single lone compound, gigantic floodlights pointed down into the vast courtyard at its centre. Its walls were built of thick stone, their foundations ran deep into the sodden earth and a complicated but efficient drainage system kept the place from flooding. Its huge iron doors were pitted and scarred from some forgotten battle a millennia before and marked with the updated symbol of those who now owned it, a golden print of two letters, H and F. House Fivakk. A name that brought fear to the hearts of those who traversed the nearby systems. House Fivakk were pirates, ruled by one man, the descendant of Corvonallian Fivakk who had founded the organisation and built his criminal empire to pass down from son to son. Casthellion Fivakk was the latest son to inherit the pirate gangs and this fortress formed their head quarters. House Fivakk had dozens of ships and mobile bases spread throughout the system, each one controlled by men handpicked by Casthellion, but this was the most secure, it was the only one fixed to a single place and it was impossible to find. It was hidden deep in the jungle, on this world called _Formido, _in Low Gothic it meant, fear, terror, dread, it was a place no one had visited for countless years. Its weather was too extreme its environment to hostile.

This fortress, which Corvonallian had stumbled across quite by accident, whilst on the run, was the safest place on this world and only those loyal to House Fivakk knew where it was. From here Casthellion commanded his pirate fleet, it was where the most precious of his stolen cargo was brought and stored underground in the vaults. Where only his most trusted and loyal crew members were permitted to enter. It was supposedly a former prison, with cells buried deep underground. It had been impossible to escape therefore the pirates had thought this place impossible to locate, impossible to breach.

They had been wrong.

Out in the darkness of the jungle, a gigantic figure loomed beneath the trees. The rain drummed hard and loud against thick plates of ceramite armour, gathering in the grooves and turning to steam where it fell against the heated exhaust ports of the suits backpack. When the lightning blazed above the figure was revealed momentarily in the harsh glare. His armour was deep red, like old blood, the edges of his shoulder guards trimmed in black to show his rank. Upon the chest plate an iron grey image of a robed figure, its face hidden in the depths of its hood, held a scythe with a skeletal hand, its feathered wings outstretched and majestic despite their owners grim visage. This same image was repeated on the warriors left shoulder guard, only here the wings were folded at the reapers back. Upon his right guard a grinning iron skull was encircled with by the words, _Ferrum Messorem Timent, _picked out in silver. About his body purity seals held in place with dull grey wax fluttered in the wind, their words streaked by the downpour. His helm, featureless, save the green eye lenses glowing balefully in the half light, that stared into the darkness. At his back a heavy black cloak hung limp and sodden, its hem torn and stained with dirt.

He shifted his weight and the clear water that had gathered on his immobile form cascaded from his armour, twinkling as it fell in the glow of another flash of lightning.

"Remember why we are here brothers." His head turned to regard the others stood at his back. His voice was calm and clear, stern but not harshly so. It was a voice carrying an air of authority, of experience and age though compared to the others of his rank that had come before, he was still considered young, but that in itself was a testament to his devotion, his skills in battle and ability to command. Why he had been chosen for such an honoured role.

"_Ferrum messorem timent." _he intoned.

_" Et indigna pati non vivere." _came the reply.

Davian Sirax, Death Knight Executioner of the first company of the Iron Reapers, unclipped the black cloak from his shoulders and allowed it to fall heavily to the ground with a wet slap.

"All units." he Voxed on the company wide network. "Attack pattern _occulta interfectores_ in effect." Inside his HUD runes of acknowledgement winked once. Everyone was ready.

"Advance."

Despite their bulky and seemingly cumbersome power armour the company of Iron Reapers moved almost silently in the jungle, their autosenses bathed the world in shades of green and white but gave them perfect night vision. Wind and rain, mud slicks and rivers were nothing to them. They had landed here the night before, far out of sensor range and advanced on foot. Despite the weather they had not lost a single marine. They did not falter, did not stumble or fall. They were Adeptus Astartes. This was what they were created for, to fight where mortals could not, to face the enemies of mankind and defeat them or die trying. They did not know fear, they embraced death and they did the Emperors work, the work of the Reaper. They would rid the universe of the Unworthy one by one if needs be.

Davian cast his gaze over the fortress walls, the gate was sealed and defended by armoured heavy bolter emplacements. A direct assault would result in unnecessary loss of life on the Reapers side. Davian was not a man to throw his warriors lives away on such a tactic. They had only minimal heavy weapons, nothing big enough to destroy the emplacements outright. The Iron Reapers travelled light, preferring in this instance to catch their enemies off guard and up close. No, they would climb the walls, drop a team inside, assault the positions from behind and open the gates. Once the emplacements were cleared then the company would move in. He stayed low, his bulk concealed at the very edge of the light cast by the flood lamps. Across his vision runes flashed up displaying information on enemy weapons and war gear as he examined each of the sentries standing atop the walls. They were lightly armoured in flak vests and rain coats, between them they carried an array of las weapons and hard shot auto guns, either stolen or bought, the Fivakks had certainly amassed enough wealth to purchase the best gear available. Davian had expected heavier armoured troopers than this but it mattered little. Obviously Casthellion had not thought he needed such protection hidden here. Davian allowed himself a sour smile, Casthellion's arrogance would be his downfall. He selected a target and levelled his Bolter. He did not need to make the order to fire, selected squad marksmen would have already identified their targets and would be waiting only for the right moment to open up. Davian inhaled and exhaled slowly keeping his moving target in sight. Lightning flashed above, then came the rumble of thunder. Davian opened fire, the sound of his bolter drowned out by the sky's outburst. His target burst apart in a shower of crimson droplets. Inside his HUD confirmations of targets down flashed once.

"Infiltration teams move in."

The Executioner was on his feet a second later. He would lead from the front as a Death Knight should. Brother Hellthak raised his grapple launcher and with a whoosh the four pronged hook sailed into the air and came down on the other side of the wall. Hellthak pulled until the line became taught. Davian took a firm grip and began to ascend, his boots finding practiced purchase on the smooth stone. Most Space Marine chapters would have snorted in derision of such a tactic but the Iron Reapers understood the need for an occasional use of subtly. That was what made them so deadly, they embraced all forms of warfare. It was true that the same could be said for many chapters but they all had their specialties. For the Imperial Fists it was siege warfare, for the Raven Guard it was lightning swift strikes, the Iron Reapers speciality was total adaptability. Even the Ultramarines, the ultimate Codex chapter would find it difficult to match the Iron Reapers in that regard.

Davian vaulted the wall and landed in the battlements. Behind him Veteran Sergeant Braxio swiftly followed, his power sword deactivated for the moment lest is glow and hum give away their position. So far they remained undetected. They moved silently, stepping over the pulped remains of a sentry, Davian peered over the wall into the compound below. Two dozen or so men milled here and there, each in a yellow or white rain coat. Somewhere loading crates of las rifle magazines into halftracks that lined the far wall. Some were stood guard, their weapons held loosely in cold numb fingers. Directly below The Executioner an awning had been erected, beneath it a few men were playing cards and chatting idly.

"Squads Throll and Jarrox, prepare to hit the gates. Everyone else go on my signal. Let's turn out the lights."

Across the wall one of the Reapers disabled and smashed the circuitry connecting the flood lights. Instantly the compound was bathed in darkness, save the dull glow of lights from the rooms below. There were a dozen moans and complaints.

"Damned generators offline again. Go fix it!"

"Yeah, yeah!"

Davian waited, watching a group of his men slide over the wall using the cover of darkness to slip into the compound unseen.

A pirate had ascended the steps on to the wall, clearly the one who had been sent to fix the generator issue. Sergeant Braxio stabbed him in the neck with his combat blade and lowered him silently to the ground. Then there was a double crump of krak grenades, then a voice on the vox net. "Sergeant Throll here, Bolter emplacements destroyed. Gates opening!"

Davian heard the grinding of metal and watched the gates swinging open. "Excellent work Throll, secure the courtyard with Jarrox. I'm moving to the lower levels. Infiltration teams, on me."

Davian leapt from the wall, his power armoured legs absorbing the impact with a hiss of servos, his men falling in behind him, Braxio's sword crackled to life.

"_ Ferrum messorem timent!" _Davian yelled, his bolter splitting a man in half with a single volley.

_" Et indigna pati non vivere!" _His men called in reply.

There was no need for subtly and stealth now, the compound was lit once again, this time in the stuttering glare of muzzle flashes.

Pirates tumbled to the ground, bodies blown apart by mass reactive shells or shredded by the teeth of a chain blade. Davian reached over his shoulder and withdrew his axe from the magnetic clamps on his backpack. The axe of the Executioner, _Carnificis_, his thumb hit the activation rune and energy danced along the single edged blade. Lit from within the words inscribed on its head began to glow pale green in the darkness. Its straight haft was wrapped in worn black leather that creaked softly in Davian's grip. He hefted the two metre weapon in one hand, swinging it around his head, the glowing words leaving a trail of light in the air and brought it down to cut a man in two with a precise centre strike on the top of his skull. Without looking he fired a volley of bolter shots behind him, blowing three men off their feet in spurts of crimson. Las fire splashed harmlessly against his armoured chest, one grazed his ornate helm, rocking him slightly. Davian remained unfazed and opened fire on full auto tearing apart the man who had shot at him and destroying the stack of ammunition crates behind him, the shells cooked off some of the stored ammo and the crates blew apart mangling more pirates caught in the barrage of shrapnel. Around him more Reapers were dropping into the compound, Bolters and chain blades dealing pain and death upon the Unworthy. Satisfied The Executioner turned on his heal and strode towards the squat buildings located at the rear of the compound, inside them was the entrance to the vaults beneath, where Casthellion Fivakk, the man Davian had come to see, would likely be hiding. As one the remaining Iron Reapers outside swarmed into the compound killing each and every man they encountered. It was slaughter pure and simple.

As Davian walked the black armoured Brother Ilthax fell into step with the Executioner. In one hand the mighty warrior carried his Crozius Arcanum, its head the image of the Reaper, his hands clasped over his heart, wings outstretched and sharp to form the weapons blade. Ilthax's armour was archaic in design like many of the Chaplains serving in the Iron Reapers, but no less effective than a more modern suit of armour. It bore the winged reaper across its chest, a leering skull formed the right shoulder pad and a haloed and winged Reaper upon the left, all of which were cast in iron. Open his chest, legs and arms blue waxed purity seals fluttered and upon his belt his silver Crux Terminatus Rosarious hung from a golden chain next a black leather bound book. The most unsettling aspect of his armour was the bone white skull helm he wore in place of a regular battle helm. Its stare was flame red as opposed to the green of all other suits of armour the Reapers wore and its mouth grinned savagely as if amused at the fear it brought to the hearts of the Unworthy.

"Good to have you at my side once again Reclusiarch." Davian nodded to his comrade.

"A pleasure as always Executioner." Ilthax never referred to Davian as anything other than Executioner, for that was his title, his role.

Ahead of them the entrance to the vaults was a miniature armoured bunker. Its doors too had swung closed and a small unit of pirates had taken up firing positions. Ilthax raised his bolt pistol and fired twice catching a pirate high in the chest and detonating his torso across the bunker wall. Davian too fired as he walked, backed up by Braxio and the command squad, plus squads Ursax and Gethello. The withering hail of Bolter fire chewed up the sand bag emplacements in seconds and reduced those behind it to little more than scraps on the sodden ground. Steam rising from the hot muzzle of his Bolter, Davian stepped to one side of the bunker doors.

"Sergeant Ursax if you wouldn't mind?" he stated calmly.

Ursax approached the doors his power fist humming gently. "With pleasure Executioner." he replied with a brief nod.

He reached back opening his hand and rammed the gauntlets finger tips into the gap between the doors. Metal hissed and melted around the power fists energy field. With a grunt of effort the Sergeant began to slide the doors apart, the mechanism inside screeching in protest. Las shot and hard rounds erupted through the gap he was creating, splashing against his shoulder pad and grazing his back pack. Braxio placed his Bolter muzzle into the gap and opened fire on full auto. There were some screams but the fire did not cease.

"Allow me." Brother Ariyax stepped into the breach two primed Frag grenades in his hands. He tossed both through. The dual explosion sent a wave of dust pouring through the gap but the firing stopped.

Finally Ursax prised the doors apart to reveal the grenades devastating effect. Davian nodded his approval taking in the gore splattered walls and floor with one glance.

"Gethello, secure the entrance, sweep this floor everyone else with me into the vault."

There was a huge cargo elevator at the centre of the bunker than would take them all the way to the bottom but it would leave the Reapers far to exposed when they reached the vault and they had no indication of what kind of defences the pirates would have set up. Davian crossed the low ceilinged room where a set of dark stairs wound their way down on the left of the lift. He ordered the lift to be rigged with melta charges and sent down without them. Davian and the others would use the stairs, it would be slow going but the melta charges would provide an excellent and devastating distraction and prevent any form of escape other than up the stairs straight into Davian's grasp. He doubted very much that Casthellion would try and run but he wasn't taking any chances. There was of course the possibility there was a secret tunnel that the pirate lord could use to escape but the fortress was surrounded and the initial scans had detected nothing. The Executioner had confidence that regardless Casthellion would not flee, he was the type to stand and fight.

It was dark on the stair case, but that mattered little, Davian's auto sense kicked in instantly adjusting to the gloom. Disturbed dust drifted up from his footfalls and it became apparent that this section of the bunker hadn't been used in a long while. They descended towards the vault, the space big enough to fit two marines side by side so Davian and Ilthax walked at the front, weapons held ready. After about five minutes of walking they heard a distant boom and the walls shook raining yet more dust onto their armour. Evidently the elevator had arrived. Davian glanced at Ilthax, behind him Ursax chuckled darkly.

After another ten minutes or so they reached the bottom of the staircase. A set of double doors barred their way, chained shut. Davian kicked them open and stepped out into a huge well lit warehouse. Opposite them the remnants of the elevator were still smoking causing the buildings sprinkler system to activate. Davian scanned the wreckage and saw no life signs. Just the shredded remains of bodies and a few ruined artefacts.

"This is an unholy place." Ilthax commented behind him, taking in the blasphemous collection Casthellion had stored.

Davian walked carefully, between the displays some containing alien weaponry or jewellery even pieces of architecture or art. Davian did not allow his gaze to linger too long on such unclean items. There were living creatures in tanks or cages, some Davian recognised some he did not. Casthellion and his family seemed to have spent a lot of time and money to gather so much.

"Ursax." The Executioner said without turning. "Start rigging explosives on all the major structural points and anything you find particularly displeasing."

"Aye sir." Ursax replied with relish.

Ilthax touched the sergeants shoulder guard, making him pause. "Alert me immediately if you should find a moral threat."

Ursax nodded grimly. "Aye sir." Then he and six of his marines began to spread out, the other three stayed with Davian and Ilthax.

"Casthellion must be down here somewhere." The Executioner commented, his weapon trained and ready.

As if to confirm his thoughts a weapon discharged somewhere ahead and a needle beam of energy spat across the display room. It struck one of Ursax's men in the chest and knocked him flat. Davian fired twice, shattering a display case and kicking a spray of shrapnel from the floor. A figure dived aside levelling his weapon once more. Suddenly Ursax was behind the figure, he swatted the weapon from the man's grasp and hauled him off his feet. Davian lowered his weapon.

"Well done Sergeant."

Ursax dropped the man on the floor and crushed the alien weapon beneath his boot. "I'll let you finish with him Executioner. Hirthol? You alright?" he was addressing the marine who had been shot.

Chest plate smouldering and cracked, Hirthol sat up. "Yes sir. No injuries."

Davian holstered his Bolter and knelt down, staring at the figure. It was indeed Casthellion Fivakk. He was older than Davian had expected, his face withered and his brown hair greying at he edges. His clothes were well kept and draped in finery. His pale eyes were full of malice and hate when The Executioner lifted him off the ground, one hand wrapped around his throat, not tight enough to choke him but enough to show that he wasn't going to bluff.

"If you're going to kill me, get it over with. But at least let me see my murderers face!" Casthellion's voice sounded much younger than it should have and Davian could detect the faint metallic twang of augmentation.

The Executioner nodded and handed _Carnificis _to Ilthax. One handed he released the clamps on his helmet. Davian's features were revealed to Casthellion, lean and pale skinned, the shape of his jaw and cheek bones suggested nobility. His eyes had become hard and unforgiving, their colour vivid electric blue with streaks of paler hues and white, like lightning spearing towards the dark of his pupils. A mass of dull blonde hair fell around his face in unruly strands and thin pointed goatee of the same colour jutted from his chin. A pale scar gently tugged the right corner of his mouth, another ran from the left of his forehead down over the bridge of his nose to his right cheek. Three more shorter scars, like claw marks trailed from beneath his left eye lid to his jaw line and down past his gorget. The silver service studs in his forehead glinted harshly in the artificial light. Davian fixed Casthellion with an intense stare. To his credit Casthellion didn't flinch.

"I need you to answer a question." Davian stated flatly.

Casthellion chuckled. "Are you serious?"

The Executioner squeezed gently. Casthellion's eyes bulged.

"I am. Someone came to see you recently. We tracked him here but the trail went cold when he left the system. So I'm going to ask you where they're going."

Casthellion could breath but barely, Davian was applying enough pressure to make it difficult for him but not enough to cause him to pass out.

"Kovrak. Where is going?"

"Who?" Casthellion gasped.

"Don't mess with me. A traitor to the Golden Throne, formally an Astartes like myself fallen from grace. They call him Lord Kovrak. Where is he going?"

"Why would he tell me?"

"I never said he had but you know don't you? I can see it in your eyes, I don't like liars Casthellion or pirates." Davian squeezed a little bit tighter.

Casthellion choked, his face turning purple. "Infractus!" he gagged.

Davian frowned and glanced at Ilthax, the Chaplain shrugged.

"Don't lie to me." he warned again.

"Infractus!" Casthellion repeated.

Davian let him drop to the floor. Casthellion retched and gurgled, trying to regain his breath.

"Why would he go back?" Davian asked Ilthax who shook his head.

"I suppose we will find out Executioner."

"We have what we need. Davian replaced his helmet and took _Carnificis_ from the Chaplain.

"So your done with me?" Casthellion croaked. "You're letting me live?"

Inside his helmet The Executioner smirked. "No." He turned, sweeping _Carnificis _before him in a wide arc, "You have been deemed Unworthy." he stated neatly cutting the pirate lords head from his shoulders.


	2. Chapter 1

_**Author's Notes: Chapter one of Iron Reaper. Introducing the second main character in the series and the beginnings of this tales over arching plot. Please let me know what think, any feed back is welcome for this one. **_

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He ran. Oh how he ran. What else was there but to run? It was cold this night and each icy breath tore at his throat and burned his lungs. Still he pounded on, his legs aching, his feet bruised and numb. If they caught him they'd torture him and he knew he couldn't handle that. He'd give in immediately to save himself the pain. He'd betray his father's trust in a heartbeat if meant he could live a little longer. So instead he ran because at least this way he wouldn't have to suffer either. They were hunting him now and deep, deep down he knew he couldn't run forever. No one could, not from them.

Before him the streets narrowed, the snow speckled roads giving way to damp winding alleys and tunnels that ran deep into the under-hive's super structure. Finally, he gasped a cold sigh of relief. Ducking in a pitch black alley way he scurried away into the shadows and pressed himself into an alcove to catch his breath. Sucking back lungful after lungful of frigid air he waited. He knew he couldn't hang around forever but he needed just a moment to get his bearings, get his heart to slow down a bit. In the bowls of the gangers territory there was a safe house he'd used before. He needed to pay for the luxury but money wasn't a problem for him now. Finally his breathing became easier and he decided now was the time to move. He turned his coat inside out, changing the brown hide to crimson. From his pocket he tugged a woolen hat and turned his collar up. It wasn't much of disguise but it would do for the moment. He knew this place like the back of his hand, he wouldn't get lost but they would. Tucking his hands into his pockets and keeping his head down he trotted off in the direction of gang land. His plan was to double back every now and again to weaken the scent.

He walked for a few minutes when the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end. He stopped and turned. There was nothing behind him but drops of water from the guttering above. Hunching his shoulders he set off again unable to shake the unease crawling up his spine. Had he waited too long? Had they caught up? Should he have run deeper into the underhive before he stopped? Being a coward of his calibre meant he'd learned long ago to trust his instincts, especially fear. He started to jog, looking back to see if anyone was following. Not yet. He could sense them though. He sped up a bit, his hand digging into his coat to wrap around the handle of a compact las pistol. He skidded to a halt and turned the weapon raised. Eyes darting from either side of the alley to other he saw something blur in the shadows at the far end. His pistol discharged in a flurry of white hot las shot that splashed down the alley, scorching holes in the brickwork and sizzling in the drizzle. For a moment the narrow lane was lit up and there was nothing waiting for him. When the echo of weapons fire died down and he was left standing amidst the steam, heart hammering he realised that was being stupid. If they had found him they'd have shot him already, once in the leg to incapacitate but not kill, that was their style. Or so he'd been told. With a sigh he holstered his weapon and turned.

Something flat and metal slammed into his face. He instantly tasted blood his teeth slicing into his lips and fireworks exploded vividly across his vision. He was thrown backwards into the wall, the back of his head slamming against the bricks. Blinded by white light and pain he slumped to the floor.

"Don't kill me!" he blurted.

His head was swimming and nausea was taking hold.

"I'm not going too, not yet." came the reply. It was a woman's voice, calm and silky smooth. Almost soothing.

He opened his eyes, tears hot on his cheeks, blood dripping from his chin. What he saw confirmed his fears but certainly wasn't exactly what he was expecting.

She wore fitted amour of segmented emerald panels trimmed in silver. It was elegant and slender, yet practical and imposing all the same. About her waist was a wide black belt, its buckle a silver stylised_ I_. Her mouth and nose were hidden behind a black featureless mask, her eyes were obvious replacement bionics, all white and no pupils, they shone brightly in the darkness. Her hair was drawn off her face in a long ponytail of shimmering blonde. In her right hand she carried a sword, its powered blade crackling and steaming in the drizzle. Attached to her left wrist was a broad shield, the same colour as he armour, displaying once again the stylised _I _emblazoned in silver as well as a number of limp, damp purity seals. Evidently it had been the shield he'd been battered with. He noted a power back attached to the back below her clenched fingers. This too must have generated a force field like the power sword. He was thankful it had been deactivated or his face would have been burned to ruin instead of split lip and a broken nose.

"This is Eliza." She said seemingly to thin air but he guessed there was a micro bead in her mask. "I have the target."

He did not hear the reply but she cocked her head and glanced at him before answering.

"He is incapacitated." she nodded, "Understood. Transmitting co-ordinates."

Eliza sheathed the sword and tapped a few commands into a panel built into her gauntlet. Then without further words she began to rummage in his jacket. First removing his pistol and tossing it aside, then his wallet, key cards, everything he had on him. On any other occasion he'd possibly try and make a run for it while her sword was away, or make a joke about her buying him a drink first. Both thoughts did nothing but make him feel sick. He hoped she would leave him sitting down, anything more and he'd vomit. His face was beginning to swell and his world was starting to spin, getting faster with each second.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked, biting back the urge to puke.

Eliza said nothing, most of his pockets contents were left on the ground to soak, she only kept his identification. She took his arm and roughly hauled him to his feet.

"No ple...!" he managed before vomiting thickly. "My heads swimming, don't make me walk." he threw up again, staining the front of his jack and trousers.

She ignored his pleas tugged him towards to mouth of the alley, her brow furrowed in distaste. "Believe me, you are in for worse."

"Oh." he replied meekly.

An hour had passed, though most of it a blurred mess of spinning images and nausea. When he finally came round, his head clearing slightly, he found himself clamped into a metal chair, the bindings on his wrists tight enough to cut off the circulation. His clothes had been removed leaving only his underwear to save some dignity, despite there being virtually none left as it was. He had no idea where he was, the room was bare and dark save for a some flickering candles in the far corner, the build up of wax below the small table they were placed on suggesting that no one bothered to clean up in here, or at least they hadn't for a long time. Eliza stood near the candles and another woman, dressed in the exact same style armour, stood on the other side of the room. Her eyes too were pure white orbs, but her skin was a shade or two darker and her jet black hair cut shorter to her shoulders. He had not heard her name yet but he was beginning to suspect that the women were body guards or enforcers for the mastermind behind his kidnapping. The very thought of who that could be was threatening to loosen his bowels.

"Mr Hamlek Varington." It was not a question it was a statement of fact, directed at the man in the chair. The voice that spoke was calm and unthreatening, fairly young sounding but carried a huskiness that suggested a smoker and drinker of fine liquors. "You seem to have found yourself in a rather compromising position." It held an air of pure authority, of total belief in its owners abilities but without the irritatingly arrogant twang you might come to expect from someone with that level of confidence.

"What do you want with me?" Hamlek asked, his voice was weak and dry, the polar opposite of the newcomer.

"A confession and information." the voice replied.

"I'll give you whatever you want." Hamlek choked, he could feel himself beginning to cry. He'd never been strong willed. He'd grown up with money, power and people waiting on him hand and foot. He'd never done anything for himself, even when it came to confrontation he'd always let his father's goons deal with it. He'd never had a fight in his life. It had made him pathetic and only now did he realise this fact. "Just don't torture me. I beg you!" Then he was sick on himself again. Pathetic.

The new figure stepped into his line of sight and Hamlek realised that all his suspicions had been spot on accurate and his fears were entirely justified, for there was no mistaking the profession of the man before him. Inquisitor. He cast an imposing silhouette in the flickering candle light. His knee high boots were matte black leather with half a dozen silver buckles running up the outside. Next a pair of black breeches were worn with a military style jacket of deep ocean blue. About his waist a wide black leather belt was buckled with the stylised _I _of the Inquisition. Upon his right hip was a sheath containing what Hamlek suspected was a power sword yet it was thinner and subtly curved like a cutlass rather than a straight double edge like the ones his bodyguards carried. On his left hip was a holster for a long barrelled and ornate looking Bolt pistol, the likes of which Hamlek had never seen, its black grip run through with beautiful silver patterns dancing around each other in symmetrical swirls . What little he could see of its casing was covered in the same designs. To complete his outfit the Inquisitor wore a long black great coat that almost touched the floor at his heels, a pair of thick gloves the same colour as his tunic and a dark grey scarf. Finally, a wide brimmed black hat, emblazoned with a silver skull was dipped low on his head to conceal his facial features in shadow.

"My name is Hector Scirus." the Inquisitor stated, clasping his hands at his back. "I appreciate your co-operation Hamlek but I doubt you'll tell me _all_ I wish to know. Unfortunately for you that means I must use methods which you will probably consider... unpleasant and in the extreme, excruciatingly painful."

This time Hamlek's bowels did let go and he began to sob at his own humiliation.

"P...please." he blubbed, "I'll tell you everything I... I swear! Every last detail!"

If Scirus noticed the acrid reek wafting into the air he gave no reaction. "Hamlek your family is accused of corruption, of possible dealings with darker forces than even you may realise. Now yours is a very high profile family Hamlek as I'm sure you know. I cannot simply walk to the front steps of your house and accuse your father of heresy. Well I could as is my right as an Inquisitor but it was cause outrage, panic, perhaps rioting of the lesser masses, which could well lead to the injury or worse of innocents and that's something I would very much like to avoid. So I'm using subtlety to get what I want. Luckily for me you haven't been high on Lord Varington's priorities list recently which means I've been able to bring you here to conduct this... interview, and no one has batted a single eye lid. It seems no one has noticed your absence."

By now Hamlek was hysterical. "Please!" he moaned. "Please."

"All we need from you is a recorded and detailed confession so we can set our plan in motion." The Inquisitor began to remove his gloves and scarf.

After a few minutes Scirus stood before Hamlek stripped to the waist, his body lean and powerful, handing each item of clothing to Eliza. Lastly he removed his hat revealing for the first time to Hamlek, his face. Scirus appeared much younger than Hamlek had expected, perhaps mid twenties. His face was thin like a dagger, a pure white goatee jutted from his chin and a pencil moustache sat upon his upper lip. His hair too was white and drawn back off his face in a pony tail that fell between his shoulder blades. There were a few lines around eyes that suggested he had seen far more than his age would have you believe but the shocking lime green colour of his irises made Hamlek wonder if there was some kind of genetic manipulation at work in Scirsus' cells but Hamlek was in no fit state to imagine what they could possibly be or what it meant.

Hamlek heard a door open behind him, snapping him from his momentary distraction and back into this nightmare reality. Before he could turn and look the other woman stepped in and secured his head to the back of the chair with another metal clamp that felt achingly cold against his clammy skin.

"We don't want you moving around too much. These sessions can sometimes get a little messy." Scirus explained with a smile that make Hamlek's blood turn to pure ice.

* * *

Hamlek Varington's interrogation proved to be as successful as Scirus had hoped. He had given the Inquisitor everything he needed, every last little detail of his families corruption. He provided details of all the plans he knew of, how far the seed of heresy had been sown and even with a little extra pressure, remembered things he had not realised he'd noticed at the time. He'd given up who was involved and how much they knew and what roles they took in his father's plans if any. Scirus knew that Hamlek had not given him _everything_, the simple fact was the boy had not known about every last detail of his father's plans. His outlandish and unsavoury actions prior to all of this had left him as somewhat of an outcast within the Varington family. What he did know was enough for Scirus and the Ordo Hereticus to put their plan into action and remove Lord Varington from power. Lord Varington was well loved by the people of Benaxia and simply removing him from office would cause suspicion and outrage even among those with no part in or knowledge of his heresy. With the evidence given by Hamlek the Inquisition moved in secret, uncovering the vile cult of Chaos that Varington and his followers had started in the upper classes. Quietly he was removed from power and it was made to look as if he had chosen to step down himself and handed control over to a man picked and trusted by the Inquisition and would be accepted by the people. It was a slow process, one that required time and subtly mixed with lots data manipulation and deceit to keep the awful truth from emerging. Within the space of a few months the Varington family and those associated with their plans were taken away and executed without the people of Benaxia ever knowing the real reasons why and they carried on with their lives in peace, free from the tyranny of Chaos Lord Varington had been preparing to unleash. It was a perfectly planned and executed assignment and rare bloodless action by the Inquisition, that left only those who deserved it receiving punishment.

* * *

Scirus stood alone in the viewing deck of the _Excubia_. Above and around him the stars of the Velamentum System twinkled in the void and somewhere far off in the twinkling void was Benaxia, the world he made free. _Excubia_ had remained hidden here in Valementum since the earliest days of the Inquisitions founding. It was one of many stations the Ordos of the Inquisition used as a fixed head quarters. From outside it looked no different to any other Imperial platform. A sphere of black metal, about the size of a small moon, lay at the centre dotted here and there with weapons emplacements and saviour pod tubes. Around the centre sphere was a ring with six arms reaching out in a star pattern, each with another slightly smaller sphere attached. From these protruded docking clamps and landing bays. Along the arms were more gun turrets, communication spires and yawning hangars. Small craft buzzed like insects around the mother ship, darting from one hangar to another. Behind the tall stained glass windows, servitors and serfs could be seen going about their business with haste, at each doorway a pair of black armoured Inquisitorial Storm Troopers stood in guard, shotguns held at ease. Each arm was fitted for a specific role. Arm 1 was maintenance and storage space, arm 2 storm trooper barracks, mess halls and armouries, arm 3 medical centres. Prisoners and interrogation rooms were held on arm 4, research laboratories made up the rooms on arm 5 and finally arm 6 contained the chapels and libraries. The centre sphere contained the Inquisitors stationed on _Excubia_ private quarters and meeting halls. The viewing deck where Scirus stood was located on the sphere's upper most level, a wide round room with a domed ceiling giving a full three hundred and sixty degree view of the empty space beyond the hyper reinforced glass.

From where he stood Scirus could just make out the shape of his own ship, _Equus Venaticus,_ docked on arm 2. The _Venaticus _ was a mere light cruiser, sleek and elegant in design with smooth thick armoured plates upon her flanks. Her prow an arrow shaped slab of black with the Iquisitions's stylised _I _emblazoned in silver. She was armed with minimal torpedo bays and gun batteries and contained only enough barracks for a single regiment of Storm Troopers, crew and serfs as well as Scirus own private chambers. She was utterly dwarfed by the _Excubia_ but she belonged to Scirus, he'd acquired her a many years ago upon the death of its former commander and she had served him well ever since.

Scirus had removed his hat and coat, leaving them in the arms of a serf who stood quietly nearby. In one hand Scirus held a Lho stick, its pale blue smoke wafting around his body. In the other hand a glass of vintage Amasec and ice. Next to him was the only piece of furniture in the room, a mahogany table big enough to accommodate only his ash tray and decanter of amasec. Normally there would be nothing in here at all but Scirus had the serf bring it in specially while he waited. Scirus exhaled through his nose, coils of Lho smoke billowing against the glass. Behind him he could sense the presence of Sisters Eliza and Iris by the rooms only access hatch in its centre, swords sheathed and shields held in front of them. They were rigid like statues, their only movements the occasional blink of an eye. Though referred to as Sister, neither Iris or Eliza were associated with the Adepta Sororitas. Scirus actually knew very little about either of their past lives, both of them were tight lipped in that regard. All Scirus knew for certain was they were two of the most dangerous women he'd ever met and that they had cost the Inquisition a lot of time and resources. They were utterly devoted the Inquisition and the Emperor, took orders without question and their augmentations made them more than a match even for Astartes.

Scirus knew why he was waiting here, it meant his host needed utter privacy for whatever discussion they were about to have. The viewing deck was the only place you could be utterly certain you were alone if you so wished and could not be overheard, even by listening devices. On top of the that it was shielded from the prying eyes of psykers by wards Scirus didn't pretend to fully understand. He was no psychic, the mere thought of it made him feel physically ill. Of course on board _Equus Venaticus_ there were astropaths but they were tolerated purely because they were essential for communication and warp travel but Scirus still held them in distain and were there no longer a need for such creatures he'd have them executed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his host. Scirus turned to regard the elevator rising from the centre of the room, Sisters Iris and Eliza stepped aside as it ascended, the gilded edges of the capsule and the brass Aquila emblazed upon its doors glinting in the starlight. Scirus took a sip from his Amasec and smirked. He knew who awaited him inside the elaborate elevator and it was pleased to be in the presence of an old friend again, whatever the nature of the meeting turned out to be.

The figure that exited the elevator was a stooped and wizened old man, a cloak of heavy brown fabric hung loosely about his thin frame. In one hand a walking stick of black polished metal topped with a grimacing golden skull, tapped loudly on the marble floor. From beneath his hood heavy breathing could be heard through the filter of a respirator mask that had been surgically grafted to his face. Beneath his cloak Scirus knew there was a multitude of wires and equipment hung about his frame on a harness he'd worn for nigh one hundred years. Completing the outfit was a heavy necklace with a silver Aquila pendant, the stylised _I _of the Inquisition upon its breast. Such was the weight of the chain and pendant Scirus worried it might tip the man over he was stooped so low. He was Inquisitor Lord Vanhelm Gord, he had been Scirus mentor and friend since his earliest days in the Inquisition. Gord tipped back his hood and looked up at Scirus with augmented blue eyes, their corners creased which indicated the man was smiling beneath his mask.

"Hello my old friend." Gord said, his voice distorted by his respirator. "It is good to see you."

Scirus knelt to briefly embrace the frail old man. When Scirus backed away he was shocked by how small and weak Gord seemed since they had last spoken.

"Are you keeping well my lord." Scirus asked concerned.

Gord chuckled, "Busy more like. I'm old Hector but I'm not dead yet I can still work magic out of the field." despite his appearance Gord's voice was still strong and filled with all of the authority and confidence Scirus had once feared as a novice. "The Emperors enemies can take many forms and lurk in many corners, I still fight to keep the galaxy safe and will do so until my dying breath, you of all people should remember that."

Scirus smirked, "I have been on the receiving end of your wrath on many occasion. I fear for anyone who should bear witness to it now."

Gord laughed as he walked to the edge of the viewing dome and gazed out in the void beyond.

"I wished to congratulate you for the Benaxian campaign. That was a stroke of brilliance Hector and I meant that. You made me proud, there are few Inquisitors who would have been willing to go to that effort to prevent public outrage. You potentially saved Benaxia a great deal of turmoil."

"Well I had you as a mentor my lord. I only did what you would have." Scirus replied.

Gord laughed again, longer and louder this time. "Perhaps once I would have but not now."

Scirus ran a finger and thumb over his moustache and sighed, "I fear my old friend that this is not a social call."

Gord nodded, "I'm afraid it isn't, though I wish it were that simple Hector."

Scirus glanced at the serf holding his gear, the man nodded and stepped into the elevator and set it to descend. When the hatch and closed with a thud of metal, Sisters Iris and Eliza stepped back into place. Scirus refilled his glass and waited for Gord to explain himself.

"Are you aware of the Dracones Ardentis, also known as The Blazing Dragons?"

Scirus had, they were a Space Marines chapter, a rare successor of the Salamanders but had been designated Excommunicate Traitoris. Although records of their deeds had been expunged from official records some members of the Inquisition were still aware of their existence if only in passing. As far as Scirus was aware they had been exterminated almost immediately after turning renegade. Aside from those few points there was little else Scirus knew about them. He said as much to Gord.

Gord turned from the window to regard Scirus, one hand running over his bald skull. "I was there when the incident occurred. I was part of the strike force sent to the system Infractus to quell a Chaos influenced uprising."

Scirus listened intently, he hadn't been aware Gord had been involved with the destruction of the Dracones Ardentis. He sipped from his glass and then took a long drag from his Lho stick. "What happened?"

"The Dracones were already there, along with several Imperial Guard regiments from Thyrellio. I had requested the aid of a Space Marines chapter who's specialist skills were in the hunting of heretics and traitors, they are a pure incorruptible force that I had worked with before and trusted whole heartedly. They are the Iron Reapers."

Scirus exhaled a cloud of thick blue smoke, there was a chapter he had not heard of before.

"When we arrived at Infractus the Dracones were in the process of decimating the Thyrellion forces for reasons we were unable to ascertain. They refused to respond to our Astropaths. Their fleet destroyed every single one of the Thyrellion ships, killing thousands of loyal Imperial soldiers before we could get into range to stop them. Master Skallvell of the Iron Reapers ordered his ships to open fire on the Dracones and cripple their vessels so we could at least get on board and find out what was happening. The Dracones commander opened fire with intent to kill destroying a Reaper cruiser and Skallvell, incessant with rage ordered them destroyed on the spot. With the evidence presented and lacking an explanation for their actions I authorised their extermination and would record officially that the Dracones Ardentis were Excommunicate Traitoris." Gord had barely paused for breath during his story, now he stopped and sighed deeply, "It was not the proudest moment of my career but what had been done was irreversible. Over the course of the next couple of weeks the Iron Reapers hunted down and destroyed the remaining Dracones forces until nothing remained of their Chapter."

Scirus put down his glass and stubbed his Lho stick in the ash tray. "What has caused you to tell me this tale now?"

Gord turned back to the window. "Because I failed."

Scirus frowned, "You failed?"

"Rumours are abound the Dracones are back on the grid. That the Iron Reapers have discovered that some of their chapter remains and has begun recruiting others to their cause. That the Dracones are planning something. So far the Reapers have made no attempt to contact me but I need to know if the rumours are true and if they are then the Dracones must be destroyed."

Scirus was beginning to guess why he was here. A smirk split his lips if Gord asked of him what he was expecting then Scirus was more than willing to accept the task.

"Hector my friend I'm too old for a campaign of this nature. I would like you to find the Reapers and discover the truth. If the Dracones are indeed still active I would like you to personally oversee their destruction as well as putting a stop to whatever it is they are up to. I'm asking Hector not ordering and you do not have to do this for me."

Scirus nodded, "Of course I will, you know I relish a challenge."

Gord made a grunting noise but Scirus couldn't tell if it was amusement, "Thank you Hector. This is a stain on my reputation and one that needs erasing."

"I'll get it done. I'll make preparations for the _Equus Venaticus_ to leave immediately." Scirus heart swelled with pride that his old mentor would entrust such a personal request to him. Clearly it weighed heavy on the old man's soul.

Gord nodded to the sisters behind Scirus. "Take Eliza and Iris with you, I trust them the most to keep you alive."

Scirus nodded, "I'd like to request Captain Drenton and his Storm Troopers accompany me as well, I've worked with him before, he's a good man and a brilliant leader."

"Granted." the old man looked troubled for a moment, "Hector, a word of warning. Chapter Master Skallvell does not trust easily and the Iron Reapers are a chapter bound by honour and faith in the extreme. They were entrusted with the task of wiping out the Dracones and they will take this failure to heart even more so than I and they may not be accepting of the Inquisition sticking their nose in this time."

"Don't worry." Scirus grinned as the elevator rose behind him to reveal the serf still holding his coat and hat. "I get along with everyone."


End file.
